What Goes Up Must Come Down
by maeveam
Summary: She soars high in the sky and he stays rooted to the ground, always together yet always apart-but what goes up must come down. Right?
1. Together

**A/N: **_This was originally going to be posted when it was finished, but I got way too excited over it. Expect angst, because I'm more than capable of it._

* * *

The sides of the structure are cracked in some places, falling apart in others. Exposed pipe runs down the length of a wall, rusted and riddled with holes from both weather and whatever else the world can, and has, thrown at it. Looking into the distance, most windows are nothing more than shards clinging onto steel beams by a single thread, glitter and sparkle lying at the base, scattered, but untouched. To anyone on the outside looking in, it's a series of buildings long since abandoned and due for demolishing. For them, it's the perfect cover.

It's hard to tell, from where they lay in wait, if there's more debris inside of the structures or outside, one peek through what's left of a window rivalling all they see strewn about but, if it comes down to it, they've decided there's enough for them to make use of and in the end, it's all that matters. The space outside is nothing more than a nightmare to journey through—promises of cuts, embedded glass and worse for anyone who takes a misstep and it is with naive hope that it will slow down the pain in the ass who decided this is where they'd take refuge, or at least give them a trail to follow because the alternative has too many unknown variables at play.

A little over an hour later, and they're no closer to apprehension. Plan B it is then.

He sits perched on the edge of a building, crouched low, as his eyes scan the area to their left in search of their target, her comfortably next to him, in search to their right even as her head snaps back every one minute or two, checking their six. It's getting dark, what's left of the evening sky falling beyond the line of the structures and they know once it's gone, their chance is gone too. His ear twitches when he hears something to his far right and his head snaps in that direction. He is met with the back of her head, long since turned. Heard it too, then.

They wait, paralyzed by silence, on the off chance it was nothing more than some rat braving the terrain. Bangs, clangs and a series of sounds that are not at all possible by anything less than a full grown something throws the less than believed theory right off the same edge they sit on. "There the fucker is," he breathes, his words carried to her by the wind that flows by. He sees how her shoulders ease when she nods, and doesn't mind how the corner of his lip turns. She's grown comfortable in her position and her quirk, making pro after him with the sheer force of nothing less than the cosmos pushing her forward and it shows.

Their target comes into view, taking a part of a less than structurally sound wall with it and on instinct he falls off the edge and onto the rooftop while she crouches low. It's unlikely they are seen, save for their shadows cast by what's left of the sun and the beginning of the moon, but they are careful, precise, as they always are. "Remember the plan?" Of course she does, he knows she does because she is the one who came up with it. Her nod is curt as she waits for his next move, glancing over her shoulder.

He peers over the edge, guesstimates the distance to the ground and from the ground to their target. It's a long shot, but he has a force of nature on his side. "Don't overdo it," he tosses her way in an afterthought and when he looks to her, expecting a mix between offense riddled in amusement, he's thrown to find a smirk that could rival even his. There is a shudder that he holds onto because she is a force to be reckoned with. This, he knows firsthand. "Like you're one to talk, King Explosion Murder."

Fuck, was he naive back then.

Her palm crosses his shoulder, swift and, at first, painless, but it doesn't take long before the fleeting sensation of needles prick his skin. There's a curse on his tongue, one he is hard pressed to bite back because what the fuck was that for, Round Face, until he has to look down at her and the duality in her motives. Open palm, full contact he guesses because he's no longer at her side, slowly rising over the edge. He watches her as all fingers touch save four, arms pushed downward slow. He's falling, at a speed of her own design and its then he's reminded how far she's come, and just how much further she could still go.

When he's halfway down the building, he closes his eyes and breathes. There is no sound except the racket caused by the Nomu they're after, every instinct that drives him honing in on it. There is a pause, and he wonders if by chance he was spotted. He is not in any line of sight, his shadow all but swallowed by those cast from the buildings around them, so he tosses the idea, thinking it impossible until he's damn near kissing the ground, feet away from his target, a blank expression across what he assumes is its face.

There is a pregnant pause, a single moment where neither body moves—weightlessly suspended thanks to the manipulation of her quirk, of which again he is reminded the sheer level of badassery she is capable. Fight or flight; in all reality of the situation, it is what it comes down to. He waits, as does she he notices, for it to make its move because everything, his move included, depends on what it decides to do next.

It decides to flee, so he decides to fight.

Blasts are firing off from the palm of his hands well before she relinquishes her hold on him, a far off release sounding between the ring of his quirk and the sound of heavy steps. When his feet touch the ground, he's already at an impossibly quick start, able to right himself only because it's so often that he jumps the gun and so often that he's used to it how it tosses him forward. He is quick and precise in his movements, expecting everything and nothing all at once and for good reason; he doesn't underestimate what this Nomu is capable, hasn't underestimated many since his youth—time after time being so incredibly wrong and suffering because of it, scar after scar as permanent reminders.

A blast to its back sends it forward when it wants to turn and it recovers quickly, the only proof of any impact at all is charred skin that sways with its movements but does little to nothing to affect him. It's tough, incredibly so he admits and he wonders idly if that is why she created the plan she did—because she is many things: a rescuer, a fighter, a strategist and a force but above all she is human, kind and compassionate, and if she can avoid a worst case scenario (which two parts brilliant and insane this plan surely is), she undoubtedly will.

In the distance, he hears quick steps above and for a moment switches focus to listen to her movements. The heel of her boot is nonexistent against the terrain, steady and quick on the balls of her feet. She has learned much from being at his side, from watching the way he works and has adapted. He is proud, even when he won't say it to her face.

A large claw and a hell of a swing clips the side of a crumbling building, and brings it down damn near on top of him in his musings. There is little time to plan, to think and with hands behind him, he releases two simultaneous blasts that propel him forward and has him kissing the ground just as the remains of the building finds rest. He's spared, but only by the skin of his teeth, or his lip, feeling the split and the distinct taste of iron on his tongue.

"Damnit, " he curses, shaking his hands off as they begin to sting and pushes forward. In the back of his mind where he allows himself to think freely, he hopes she wasn't on that building, quick steps once heard long since drowned out by the sounds of battle and fallen debris. He doesn't dwell long because she can handle her shit, and it's with this thought he catches up to his target, newfound anger boiling just beneath the surface on the off chance that maybe she didn't, this time.

For a moment, he forgets the plan completely. He's angry and it shows—fingers twitching, sparks crackling in his palms as he begs for a reason, any at all, to burn what's left of its skin into nothing more than ash. You're overdoing it again, he hears from his past, as she so often finds herself telling him, but he ignores it as he always does. He corrals the Nomu into a corner, conscious decision or sheer dumb luck he's not sure, and gives it no cracks to slither its way out of now that he's cornered it.

When it turns its back to him in an attempt to flee up the wall behind it, he fires a warning shot across its shoulder, daring him to even try. When it reaches towards the side, claws gripping the gaps in wall, it's met with smoke and ash that trails off his sparks as it fills the spaces in between stone and concrete. When it surges forward, angry and sporadic, it is met with an equal amount of power that pushes it back, the force of the explosion ringing in its ears and drowning out its inhuman holler. His palms sting, and as he shakes one off he fires another when the Nomu even thinks to move.

All is quiet until first pebble drops, marking the spot and he's ashamed he thought she might not have been in the position to handle it. When the second pebble falls, he's not the only one who knows she's there. It looks up, confused, and as it sees what is laid out for him in an array of sizes, shapes and edges, it curls in on itself. He thinks, for a moment it's ready to give in and, with what he sees when he too looks up, he wouldn't blame the damn thing.

He is wrong.

It jumps high, forcefully and leaves a small crater in its wake. She sees him coming but does not move—it's not time, it's not where it should be, I can't release, not yet. But she's not scared and she stands firm because she knows, he can do this, he will do this. An insurmountable amount of faith she has for him, and for good reason. Even as it creeps dangerously close to her with a speed that would send anyone running, claws out and aimed for her, she stays put, in place, and watches.

It's quick, but he is quicker, shooting himself forward and towards the Nomu with no regard to the spread above. She'll hold it , because she always does. He has faith and this time, keeps it. A rocket powered fist stops the Nomu before it can hope to reach her, sending it careening towards the ground, with the same speed that launched it, if not more. (Definitely more, he would argue later.) Another sends him dodging to the side, breath knocked from his lungs as he collides with what's left of a building just as the first piece comes crashing down.

When he is safe, albeit winded, he watches in awe at the way she works—all fingers pressed together, arms locked and thrust downward, eyes alight with a blazing fire that has him burning where he stands. One by one, a maelstrom of rock, metal, building parts and whatever else lie waste falls from the sky, once suspended but impossibly fast as it finds its target.

At first it stands in place, swatting away the projectiles in what could be annoyance, but then there are more than it can defend against, larger, sharper.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

When he covers his ears to shield from the inhuman screech, he feels the heat that radiates from his palms and the sting, dulled over for now. Overdid it, he hears her say like he knows she will, but he is entranced by the display and, like the pain in his hands, her words dulls out too. He's unsure of what's louder, the sound of its scream or the sound of her assault, but when the dust settles and the air clears, all is silent, buried beneath a buildings worth of debris, he thinks.

Slowly, she comes down from her perch as all remains still, her eyes firmly locked on the pile in front of her. Neither moves when her feet finally touch the ground, muscles still tense, still coiled and ready to spring at a moment's notice. It's much too quiet, she thinks and then the first pebble shifts, following a trail made by others until it reaches the ground. For a second, she looks to him and in that second, the Nomu bursts forward, away from him and towards her.

She is calm, hardened as it charges with terrifying speed, claws out and teeth barred because in no time he is there, two parts shield and weapon, ready to attack and defend.

There's more light than fire.

More sound than ash and smoke.

Because he too has evolved beyond what was thought capable of him—years of practice and manipulation and many, many failures among many more triumphs. She can see every crease in his skin, rigid shoulders as he releases his blast, both flash bang and deterrent and once trained claws retract to shield its eyes. Their moves are in sync; a dance many times practiced and many times perfected as he side steps her towards the back, her towards the front.

It's close, so very close and it's only when it towers over her does she act—palm open when she thrusts forward, hand to the hardened skin and when all movement comes to a stop, she knows she made solid contact, tightening her fist until it's white. He reaches for its arm a breath later, bringing the paralyzed Nomu over his shoulder (well over her) and down to the concrete with a resounding thud . "You alright cheeks?"

She doesn't answer right away and his eyes snap to her, impatient with (though he'll never say it out loud) worry because she's too damn quiet.

Then he gets a look at her.

Look who overdid it this time, he wants to say but doesn't because the tired smile she gives him is more than enough to placate the nerves that settle in him as he calls for backup. She's okay, he's okay, and everything is okay .

He waits with her, on top of what's left of the closest building, watching from the corner of his eye how her hand shakes in her lap, knuckles white as she holds onto the invisible chains she's wrapped around their target. His fingers twitch at his side, aching to help relieve the tension in each finger because he knows it's there, but make no move to grab onto hers despite how desperately he wants to. Still, he's damned impressed by the way she holds on, even when it tries to wriggle free, to no avail.

It's not long before authorities catch up to them, taking the agitated Nomu and only when it's secure inside an otherwise impenetrable box, well on its way to detainment does she release. Her fingers finally peel apart, hand shaking and she hisses from the discomfort. When he finally reaches for it, she doesn't stop him. His palms are battle torn; there's a lecture on her lips, he knows it, she knows he knows it, but she says nothing because they are so unbelievably warm and, little by little, it soothes the pain that stretches through each finger.

She's pale, winded but otherwise unharmed, he notices. He's spent, tired, and ready for a damn nap nothing short of twelve hours. He wants to berate her, like she wants to berate him but they leave it for another battle, another day. They are successful.

They always are.

Because in some off handed way, she is Mother Earth and he the molten lava that shifts far beneath her feet—they are abundant in power and strength, flow and continuity; a force that goes on and on and on when by all other reason they shouldn't be able.

When he rises to the surface, he erupts.

And when she rains, she pours.


	2. Apart

If there's one thing more villainous to Katsuki than, well the villain… it's the goddamn press.

They are like a murder that swarms; they have a tendency to pick at what's there to find what's not, collectively and individually, dissecting and clawing away at facts until it's fiction, milling fiction until it's fact and when there's nothing left to tear away at, they move to their next prey and swarm again. It's not always like this; there are some who take facts and run with them because it's enough , a necessary evil he reminds, but they are far and few apart.

Still they gather, predator and prey, with the intention of eating him alive until they've had their fill, this he knows. He also knows there would only be one to leave the ring, because no ones makes a meal out of him. It's a mark against his hero record though, a blight on his otherwise clean slate. He's learned this the hard way in his earlier years—the reminder fresh whenever they gather, some of which know he can't attack and use it as all the excuse to push him harder.

It's the one con of being a hero, Katsuki thinks.

It is also times that he's silently thankful to have a partner on his right, because they have learned to push him to the sidelines, file to the front and take the force of their claws. It's the one time he lets anyone be his shield, bench him, or otherwise fight his battles because (and only in this fashion he will remind) it's something they are better than him at. He doesn't like to people, so they make it where he doesn't have to.

So he will stand off to the side, much like he is now and just watch. Under the veil of a smile, she deals blow after blow, fire in her eyes as she dares them to take her fact and twist it to fiction. Her answers are blunt, forceful, with a flare because nothing gets these assholes blood pumping like a good story. Always polite. Always backed in truth.

There is never once a time they've disrespected her name and he thinks there never will be a time they will. She plays her hand too perfect, they know it. She knows it.

Damn near half an hour and it's only then they've had their fill, leaving them behind and off to the next poor sap who get caught in their ring. He reaches her side just as she takes a breath, then two, then three, letting the tension melt away and fall to the debris ridden dirt they stand in. There is a pause, a companionable silence that's shared between them and he waits, because he knows what's coming up next. Three, two, one.

"Those. Damn. Asses! They never know when to quit!"

It almost brings a tear to his eye, the side of her they'll never be able to use against her, the side he will protect at all costs. Expletives fall from her lips the same as they do from his and he's in momentary shock. He looks at her sideways, just watching the fire spew and for a moment, he has no words. I thought I had a potty mouth, which he does, he knows he does, but still.

When she says fuck, he's in awe.

It's only seconds before laughter bubbles to the surface and when it reaches her ears, she swats at him with all the force left in her arms and when she misses, it serves only to make him laugh harder. "Oh you shut up, too," she chides but with little bite, the corner of her own lips turning faintly. She walks away, and he falls into step with her, bearings gathered shortly thereafter.

"That shit took longer than needed," he mentions when he pulls out his phone, a scowl present because it, like himself, is covered in residual crap. He dusts it off with his glove the best he can, which isn't much but he can at least see the screen this time. "Tell him I said hi."

He clicks his tongue in feigned annoyance, but when she looks off to the side, his fingers are quick to squeeze in her message alongside his before he hits send. He thinks she doesn't see it. She does. "Could just tell shitty hair yourself when we get there." But she won't, she never does. "That's the opposite direction, Katsuki." He's not surprised by her answer at all. It's the same banter from their every time working together, just different dialogue. Still he tries, because never let it be known he doesn't give a hundred and ten percent to something he wants.

"You could just start working there." It's not a whisper, but it's also not with the same derogatory tone he is so accustomed to using—flat, because there is very little that gets any emotion he's forced to use, but not without feeling. A silent, albeit hopeful, request. She recognizes it, as she always does, because she knows him like he knows her. "I could."

"But you won't."

He knows it's coming because it always does but fuck, if it doesn't still sting every time. She doesn't mean it in any way other than the innocent acknowledgement that it ultimately is with the idea that crosses her mind every time he says it and he knows this, because it's not like her to be anything other than honest, even if in the end, someone is hurt. "You know me so well." He does, so painfully well in fact that, as time and time again has proven, he knows that if he were to look at her, he'd see the pain in her eyes mirror the pain he feels.

When she stops walking he follows suit, the crossroad they always seem to come to in more ways than one. To her left is the path always taken; one she follows, one foot in front of another, that leads her to a familiar place—one she knows well and clings to despite how she looks onto her right, longing but never chasing.

She knows it'll be there if, at any point in time, her grip were to loosen.

Because to her right is where he is, and where he will remain. To the right is his path, one he forged from the ground up, when the world decided early on to leave him behind because of what they thought they saw in him. To the right is hopes realized and dreams cast in fire and ash. "I love working with you," she starts, even as her body turns towards the left, one step taken, "but I also like working with 13; always have. You know that." He does, and it's why he follows her when she faces the left, as she always will, even if its temporary for him. Still, he will wear a grin, tried and true, because she likes working with 13, but she loves working with him.

"Yeah, I get it Round Face," and he steps ahead of her, looking over his shoulder with the same smug curve that always finds his lips when she has to keep up. "Doesn't mean I'll stop asking."

She knows he won't, and she wouldn't have it any other way.

He doesn't press on the matter as they make their way down the street, and she doesn't push back on it either. They walk, side by side, and when they reach the building that signals the end, it's much too soon. He groans audibly and, like it always does, it makes her laugh. "Same time tomorrow?" Katsuki reaches for his phone, swiping through and when he stops, he groans again. "Can't," not that he doesn't want to, but, "with Shitty Hair downtown."

Ah, right. How silly of her to have forgotten.

Ochako hums, hair falling as she tilts her head back, eyes to the sky. The stars are vast across the navy canvas and sparkle against the dark in the sky, the dark in her eyes. He notices, transfixed by the way they draw him in and he can try to break free but knows, in the end, he can't. Not now. Possibly not ever. "How about the day af—"

"Day after."

Ochako turns her head, brow furrowed because the answer comes too quickly. "Are you sure you're able?" He scoffs, knowing he's caught because somewhere in the back of his mind where coherent thoughts form, he also knows he's missing something — something that takes place on that day, sometime, and not involving her. "I'll fucking make it so if I have to." And he would, because he always does. "I shouldn't be surprised."

It's not the first time he's made time, likely won't be the last and while he thinks he's slick, she knows exactly what he's doing. She'll never tell him though, only smile and let him keep thinking he's so very clever. "By now? No you shouldn't." He's proud of himself, the confidence oozes from him and she laughs, breathless and oh so tired. She raises one hand, balled into a fist and waits. "Day after it is then." He meets her fist with one of his own, tapping lightly.

And when her fingers splay out, in what he considers a poor attempt at an explosion, he couples one in his hand because this is how its done, Round Face.

Ochako faces the building, back to him, and sighs. She's drained; he can tell. Because it's the same tension he feels in his muscles as he forces himself to stand, the same exhaustion that has him hunching forward and ready to kiss the ground. But he waits until she takes a step, never before, and only then will he pivot on his heel and leave. "Oh, and did you tell him I said hi?" Katsuki tosses a hand in the air, waving her off. He did, but no way in hell he's telling her that. "Do it yourself." The last thing he hears is her laugh.

And oh, how he soars alongside the sound.

xXX

He's ready for a damn nap.

It takes far too long to get through the mass of people inside the agency, far too long to debrief, far too long to avoid Eijirou when he asks how Ochako is doing (smug look and all) and far too long to get the fuck out. Katsuki revels in the quiet as he walks down the street, silently thankful for the gust of wind that keeps him alert and awake.

His apartment comes into view and he can feel himself getting heavy, ready to fall on any given surface he seems comfortable enough. Key in lock, the door swings open and darkness greets him, comforting and unnerving all at once. Katsuki reaches for his phone, squinting his eyes because the light is too damn bright, and sends a quick message—a house emoticon, as he always does when he makes it home for the night.

He's down to his boxers in record time, a previously discarded pair of sweatpants quick to hug the curve of his hips as he falls face first into bed. A growl shakes the silence, and his stomach churns. It goes ignored, because he's too tired to care and when it growls at him again, he's quick to growl back. Comfort envelopes him, his body sinking into its sweet embrace and every muscle, once taut and coiled, unwinds and falls limp against the covers.

Fuck it, I'll eat in the morning , the very few hours left until then.

Sleep claws at his eyelids, screaming at him to let them shut but he does everything in his power to keep them open. Katsuki stares off to the side, vision blurred and minutes (how many, he's not quite sure) pass by before anything happens. When it finally does, he breathes a sigh of relief, a low about fucking time falling from pursed lips.

Katsuki reaches for his phone, once again cursing how the screen is too bright, how his body is too heavy, how he's too damn tired. Still, he smiles because she's made it home, a single house emoticon followed by three z's, safe and sound.

Only then, does he let sleep swallow him whole.


	3. Distance

She's fucking late.

It's not like her to be, having adopted his innate need to be on time, or so she calls it. It's been no more than three minutes and a part of him knows he's overreacting. But it's the part of him that fidgets uncontrollably, his foot tapping with the beat of every second that passes that reminds him that she's still not there .

It's not rhythmic from irritation, though it bubbles beneath the surface of his skin like it tends to always do, but from worry, unease. Katsuki looks at his phone for what feels like the hundredth time, four faces and three bright smiles looking back at him, but no message received of the two that he's sent.

She's never late. Never .

She's got two fucking minutes, he thinks, every muscle coiled and tense and ready to launch him across town to find her, duties be damned. He's just about ready to until a soft vibration from his phone halts the foot that nearly takes a step.

He's quick to skim the message banner, brows furrowed when it begins with I won't be able to make it…

Since when?

Katsuki types, erases and types again. What the fuck do you mean you're not able to make it? Where the hell are you? What. The. Fuck. Cheeks. It is all drafted but never sent, replaced with a simple question mark that holds every question she knows he will have. It takes her a minute to reply, him hanging on three black dots that taunt him on his screen. When it vibrates again, it takes him no more than three seconds to check.

Meeting with 13 and some higher ups. Last minute.

Ah well, he can't really fault her for that one.

Still Katsuki trudges against the dirt, sour as he shoves his phone back in his pocket, a simple ksent before he forgets it entirely. He knows it sounds short, curt, as if he's mad though he's not. He doesn't go back and change it though. No matter how much it burns in the back of his mind to do so.

He trusts her to understand this, understand him, because he's not upset at her; he never could be. No, he's upset with the last minute shit that, though not often, gets in the way because they're of two different agencies, two different titles. He's a bit peeved because she's never one to forget, often reminding him of his duties (despite how they differ from her own) and she doesn't think tomention this?

Last minute, he remembers . Right, well there's that but you know, whatever.

Guess I'll run this solo, he decides, because he is not going back to the agency because shit fell though and he is sure as hell not doing the thing that he managed to avoid when he made plans he wasn't sure he could keep two nights before. Katsuki grins as he makes his way down the street. Tactical avoidance he'd like to call this scenario, despite knowing it was just to spend more time with her.

His phone vibrates, catching him off guard because who the fuck is texting me now? He is surprised, brow furrowed when he sees Cheeks sent him another message, swiping his screen and scanning the text, pushing down the guilt that climbs into his throat.

I'm sorry, Katsuki.

No. Fuck no. She has nothing to be sorry about and he stops dead in his tracks because he has to make sure she knows that. He dials her number with practiced ease and waits. It rings and rings and he wonders if she's going to answer, vaguely remembering it is a surprise meeting that's keeping her and wait, shit is that right now?

Katsuki almost hangs up, would have indefinitely had her shrieked whispers on the other end not begged him to hold on. He hears her shuffling, murmured apologies to who he assumes is 13 and snickers to himself when he envisions it all. He distantly wonders how red her cheeks are.

"What the hell Katsuki?" He will never get tired of her cursing, that's for sure. He chuckles and he imagines her cheeks puffed out, breath fanning her bangs when she huffs through the line. "Sorry 'Chako," he's not but, "just don't say sorry for shit you can't control." Ochako doesn't speak right away, her breathing the only sign that she's even there. A minute passes, silent and he's worried again, free hand fidgeting at his side. "Chee-"

"Did you… really call me just to say that?"

She's surprised, breathless even. He hears it in the way she speaks, how she pauses, the curiosity in her words as if she doesn't believe that he would. It catches him equally off guard but for a different reason entirely-he is prepared for some snark, some sass, something that is not this.

"Are you really that surprised?" His voice sounds foreign, too soft and too affected by the way she speaks to him. It's not surprising though, not even in the slightest. Katsuki notices the ways she changes him, has noticed for a long time, for the better he'd like to think because he is who he is, due in part because of her. And if he's asked, he will never admit it but if he's told, he will never deny it.

"No," her laughter is soft, more like bells that ring and ring "I guess I'm not."

She notices it too, she has to.

Too much time passes in silence, comfortable in the way that it brings them on edge but holds them rooted in place until she finally speaks. "I have to go…" and with how she says it, he knows she doesn't want to.

"I know." He doesn't want to let her.

"What are you going to do?"

"Run it solo." It's been too long since he's done it, felt the calm that is solitude and the ease that comes with having only his back to watch. He misses it, bounding from rooftop to rooftop, clustered explosions warming the skin of his hands in the chill of the race but if she ever wanted to tag along, he would let her without question. Shitty Hair too, maybe, if he doesn't piss him off.

"The usual, then?" Katsuki chuckles, picking up his pace and scouting the nearest alley, brick walls bound to make his ascent easy enough. "Yeah, the usual."

He doubts anything like that will happen again, where a villain makes short work of a hero alone, the manhunt still fresh in his mind so many years later. Katsuki remembers being tackled, shortly after the apprehension, tired and beat and just so fucking done by round and flustered and cryingbecause you didn't answer. It wasn't until later that night, when he looked at his phone that he knew what she meant.

13 missed texts. 10 missed calls. All from her.

There were many tears that night, civilians and heroes alike but it was hers that did him in. It was her calls, her texts, mixed in with the rest that kept him up that night and her calling him first thing in the morning, just to make sure, that made him never worry her again.

"Okay. Good luck." Ochako hangs up shortly after, the distant sounds of her name being called breaking the otherwise silence. Katsuki brings his phone down to his side, the call gone as four faces replaces the screen and he sighs. Rapid fingers send another quick text, this time to Eijirou, for reasons similar and shoves the device in his pocket.

It's a decent day out, he decides, perfect for bounding rooftop to rooftop, dust and ash in his wake. Katsuki breathes in, one step then two then he launches. The climb is simple, left to right to left again until the edge of the building is beneath the palm of his hands. He pulls his weight, muscles taut and he sees everything from his perch.

It's beautiful, the view above, and he hates that she misses it.

So with a blast from his palms, the wind coursing through his hair, he takes it in for the both of them.


End file.
